I try to grab Derek’s arm.
“Fuck off!” He pushes me away so hard I fall to the ground too.
“Ow!” I stammer.
Now Brandon turns toward me, momentarily shaken by my cry for pain. “Dixie!”
But then he immediately turns his attention to Derek again. His face has darkened, his hatred back in full force. “Motherfucker! YOU HURT HER!” Brandon screams. After throwing multiple punches, he gets off the ground and drags Derek toward the fire.
“Brandon, stop!” I yell.
But it’s too late.
Consumed by rage and completely out of it, his adrenaline has caused him to have an inhumane amount of strength. Just because of the comments Derek made about his heritage. Or maybe because Derek hurt me. And it looks as though his sole aim now is payback.
“No!” I cry out as Brandon hauls Derek so close, his hand touches the flames.
“Fucker, stop! Stop!” Derek howls. “FUCK!”
But Brandon doesn’t listen.
Not even as the people around us jump up and run toward them.
They have to physically drag Brandon away from Derek.
Shrieking is all that’s audible … after Derek’s burned hand is no longer licked by the flames.
It’s the first time I have ever seen the pitch-black darkness within Brandon’s eyes.
And I don’t think it’s going to be the last.
Chapter Fourteen
Dixie
Present
I shiver at the thought of ever being with him. Or kissing him. Never again.
I used to think he was sweet. Fuck that. Life isn’t sweet, and neither is he.
“What are you thinking about, oh dark one?” I jest, trying to catch his attention.
“Nothing,” he barks back, still pacing around.
“Still wondering what you’re going to do with me?” I say. “Oh blackened soul?”
He stops in his tracks and narrows his eyes at me. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what,” I tease. “Mr. Indian?”
He hates that word.
No, hate isn’t strong enough to describe the emotions in his eyes right now. I can almost see the wheels spinning in his head. The searing burn of his glare is enough to make me wanna look away, but I don’t. I want him to react, so I can lure him into my trap.
“Don’t you fucking—” He stops himself from saying anything else by grinding his teeth instead.
“What? I’m just asking a question … redskin.”
He stomps toward me, grasps me by the throat, and growls, “Don’t you ever fucking use those words again.”
A slow smile creeps onto my lips when I see the rage on his face. “That’s it, right?”
That’s his weakness. Or at least, one of them. The other is his dad.
“That’s what they called you and your dad, isn’t it?”
“Shut up,” he hisses.
I won’t stop trying to reel him in. It’s the only way to get close enough to grab his gun.
“You hate it when you’re confronted with your own skin,” I muse, narrowing my eyes at him. “Well, guess what? You deserve it after ruining my life.”
“I didn’t do shit,” he hisses right up in my face.
He’s so close now I can feel his breath on my skin, but I don’t let it distract me.
We both know he’s far from innocent.
He crushed my soul, destroyed me, and left me in pieces to deal with it alone.
That’s his sin to carry.
A sin I’ll never forgive him for.
* * *
Brandon
Past
November 9th
You don’t really know your uncle until you’re cooped up in a van with three other men you don’t even recognize. He called them and then picked them up somewhere far outta town. Now we’re on the way back to Springhaven.
I don’t know who they are or what we’re gonna do.
I knew my uncle was rich, but it still amazes me. After all this time, I still feel as though I don’t know him that well.
My uncle is an enigma. Someone powerful … someone I don’t know if I can trust.
But right now, I have no other choice. Family sticks together, no matter what.
I clutch the pendant my papa once gave me and hold it close to my heart.
I feel on edge. Unhinged. As if my life is happening on the big screen and I’m watching it from a seat in the theater. Minus the popcorn, but with all the salt in the world.
The men beside me occasionally glare at me, and I glare back equally hard. I wonder how my uncle knows them, and why they’re coming along. Do they work for him?
And what the fuck are they planning to do?
One of the men starts playing with a knife, twirling it swiftly in his hands as if he’s got nothing better to do. The one beside me doesn’t even seem fazed as he casually drinks from his water bottle.
Who are these guys?
There’s only one thing all of us have in common, and that’s the long black hair.
Native Americans.
Did my uncle drum them up from the reserve?
Before I can ask my uncle any of these questions, he says, “We’re here.”
The men immediately grab gloves and ski masks and put them on. My stomach churns.